


The Home Front

by goldenhart



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, Canon Disabled Character, Established Relationship, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reunion Sex, Romance, Shore Leave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:47:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29320404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenhart/pseuds/goldenhart
Summary: June, 1916. Lieutenant Commander Hornblower of His Majesty's ShipAtroposreturns home on shore leave after the Battle of Jutland and finds returning home a much more difficult prospect than imagined.
Relationships: William Bush/Horatio Hornblower
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	The Home Front

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to my yet-unpublished story _Dominion_ which is an alternate universe set in 1912 that finds Horatio Hornblower as a junior officer on a doomed ocean liner, and William Bush as a passenger whose fate quickly becomes tied to that of Hornblower's when they strike up first a friendship, then a romance. After the sinking of RMS _Dominion_ , Hornblower joins the Navy as a commissioned officer, while Bush -- a wireless operator -- takes up the position of postmaster and telegraph operator of a small coastal village based on Rye, East Sussex. This story is set four years later in 1916, when Hornblower finds himself a commanding officer and Bush remains behind, doing what he can in the war.

Will was kneeling in the dirt, weeding amongst the rose bushes, when he heard the garden gate creak open and glanced up to find Horatio standing there, his gold-trimmed uniform glinting in the morning sun.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Horatio said, smiling shyly at Will. He was thinner than he had been before, and Will noticed unhappily the bruised dark circles beneath Horatio’s eyes and the hollowness of his cheeks. But whatever worry Will might have felt for the price that Horatio was paying to safeguard his country was dwarfed by the relief and pleasure at seeing his friend in sound condition. He stood, brushing the dirt from his hands on his trousers, and stumped over to Horatio, reaching out and gripping Horatio’s proffered hand.

“I’m so glad you’re home,” he said in a quiet voice, and Horatio glanced away for a moment, his cheeks flushing with colour. Then his dark eyes met Will’s again, and Will saw in them his own happiness reflected.

“Hullo, Will,” Horatio said, softly, and it took all of Will’s resolve to not haul Horatio into a kiss right there and then, propriety and decency be damned. But he could not do such a thing, not where the neighbours might see, and so he released Horatio’s hand and stepped back. 

“Are your bags ‘round the front of the house?” he asked, and Horatio nodded.

“On the doorstep,” he said. “I didn’t dare presume—”

“That’s quite alright,” said Will. “If I’d known you were arriving earlier I would have met you at the station.” 

Horatio shook his head. “I wanted to surprise you,” he said, and such warmth spread through Will at those words that he could scarcely contain his smile. “I’ll take my bags up to my room, then. No, don’t argue with me,” he added, for Will had opened his mouth. 

“I was about to tell you to leave your bags in my room,” said Will, and Horatio nodded again, his crooked smile betraying the bemusement he was hiding. For all that Horatio accepted Will’s loyalty and love he was often so puzzled by even the smallest demonstration. “Go on,” said Will, kindly. “I was just about to have my breakfast — I’ll put some water on for coffee.”

Horatio nodded, and for a moment Will wondered if Horatio might reach out and touch him, but then the moment passed, and Horatio was once again the picture of the model lieutenant commander. “Thank you,” he said stiffly before departing. Will watched him leave and tried not to dwell on the question that nagged at the back of his mind, the worry that one day it would be the stern commander who greeted him at the garden gate and not the gentle friend Will loved so dearly. Every time Horatio returned home it took him longer and longer to put off the numbing armour he wore: perhaps one day he never would. Will shook his head to clear the thought from his mind and went off to make Horatio’s coffee.

It was as Will was putting breakfast on the table that he heard Horatio step into the room. “Do you need any assistance?” asked Horatio.

“It’s quite alright,” said Will, smiling at Horatio. He was standing in the doorway so obviously ill at ease with his surroundings that it hurt Will’s heart to see. “Sit down, would you?”

Horatio allowed Will to fuss over him without much in the way of complaint; he seemed almost dazed to find himself in Will’s kitchen again, with the morning sun shining in through the open back door. He accepted the coffee Will handed him with an appreciative half-smile and Will pretended not to see a heaping spoonful of his precious sugar disappear into the cup. There was a certain gratification to being able to tend to Horatio after so long apart; the thought of Horatio isolated by command and without anyone to care for him troubled Will more than he cared to admit.

Breakfast was a silent affair, punctuated only by birdsong filtering in from the garden. When it was over Will cleared the table and put the dishes in the sink to soak while Horatio finished the coffee. 

“I thought we might take a walk together,” said Horatio, breaking the silence. 

“Certainly,” said Will. “Now?” 

Horatio’s eyes met his for a moment before glancing away. “Yes. I thought we might walk down to the sea.”

“Of course,” said Will. “Whatever you fancy.”

Horatio did not speak until they had left the village far behind and were well along the country road that led through the flat expanse of the saltmarsh to the sea. He strode ahead of Will, his hands clasped behind his back, solicitous enough of Will’s slower pace to check himself every once in a while. 

“I’ve been relieved of command of  _ Atropos _ ,” he said, and Will stopped dead in his tracks, leaning heavily on his walking stick as he processed the news. 

“Relieved?” he asked, dumbfounded. Horatio frowned as he glanced down at his shoes. 

“I’m to receive a promotion to commander,” he said. “In light of my actions off Jutland.”

“I see,” said Will, swallowing the questions he so desperately wished to ask. He stepped forward and reached out: a moment later Horatio’s hand grasped his. “When I heard of that battle I—” He swallowed hard and met Horatio’s gaze. “I thought to myself, I thought — either that man’s going to come home a hero or he won’t come home at all.”

A bitter smile played at Horatio’s lips. “You put too much faith in me, William Bush,” he said. “It wasn’t heroism. It’s not like how the papers write it.” There was a deep sorrow in his eyes, the same weary look that Will had seen before in the days and weeks after  _ Dominion _ sank. It made his heart ache to see it now. 

“You’re home,” he said quietly, reaching up to touch Horatio’s face. “That’s what matters. Not heroism. You’re  _ home _ .”

“It’s  _ your _ home,” said Horatio. He closed his eyes as Will’s hand stroked his cheek. “Not mine.”

“Where is your home then, if not here?” asked Will, but Horatio shook his head. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, and stepped back. “Come along. We’re almost to the sea.” 

Horatio was no more talkative when they reached the broad stretch of beach. He sat down heavily in the sand and gestured for Will to join him. Together, they sat in the inconstant sunshine, listening to the waves crashing against the shoreline and the gulls crying overhead, neither one uttering a single word. Horatio took off his cap and ran a hand through his curls, his mouth set in a firm line.

“I think about this place when I’m at sea,” he admitted, breaking the silence at last. He drew his legs to his chest, resting his head on his knees. “I spend so much time imagining it the way you describe it in your letters that it almost feels unreal to see it again.”

“It’s real,” said Will. “I promise you, the water’s just as cold as you remember it.”

Horatio did not smile at the joke. “I think about you, too,” he said, softly, his eyes fixed on some interminable point on the horizon. “Lately more than ever — your letters remind me that there’s still something worthwhile to fight for.”

A sudden unease came over Will at those words. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“Eight men I lost at Jutland.” His voice wavered and he cleared his throat sharply. “Two were killed on either side of me. Six thousand they say we lost in that battle — six thousand. And for what? To force the Germans to return to port?” He blinked hard, as though trying to ward off tears. “Eight of my men died, and the Admiralty wants to reward me for it.”

“It could have been more,” said Will, and Horatio stared at him, aghast, a hard expression on his face. 

“It could have been less,” he said, his tone bitter. He turned away again, shoulders hunched in misery as he hugged his knees. “It  _ should _ have been less.”

“Horatio,” said Will, and daring greatly, touched Horatio’s back. “Easy, man.”

“We were formed up five miles astern of the Battle Fleet when the Germans approached us in the pitch dark,” he said, his tone flat, as though reading from a report. “ _ Pluto _ was in front,  _ Atropos _ behind her, when the Germans flicked on their searchlights and began to shell. I gave the order to launch two of our torpedoes at the ships and manoeuvre out of range but by then it was too late for us to escape — they’d reduced  _ Pluto _ to a burning wreck. As we returned to try and beat them back I saw something moving in the dark, lit up by  _ Pluto _ ’s flames — a large German ship had altered course with the intention of ramming us. I had no choice but to meet her, bow to bow — God, the noise was like — like what  _ Dominion _ sounded like when the iceberg struck her, only worse. When the German fired her main gun into the bridge, point blank, I was sure we were done for.” He frowned miserably and plucked at his sleeve. “I don’t remember what happened next.”

“Were you injured?” asked Will, praying that worry would not colour his voice too much.

Horatio nodded. “The blast threw me eight yards. I awoke to every bell on the ship ringing — the electrical wiring had short-circuited. There was a gash of more than sixty feet in the bow, but all I could think of was  _ Dominion _ ; I couldn’t lose  _ Atropos _ as I’d lost that ship.”

“You didn’t lose your ship,” said Will. “You made it back.”

“I had to,” said Horatio. “It was my duty to my men.” His dark eyes met Will’s. “And to you.”

“Horatio,” said Will, as gently as he could. He glanced around: there was no one on the beach but them. “Come here.”

Horatio accepted Will’s embrace more readily than Will had imagined, clinging to him tightly. In their years together Will had only ever seen Horatio like this once before, after  _ Dominion _ . It would not do to push him further; as much as Will was desperate to hear how Horatio had survived, he knew to question him further would only result in misery. He cast about for something better to say, something that might draw Horatio out of his memories and into the present. 

“Your letters,” said Will, without preamble. “I still keep them beneath my pillow.”

Horatio stiffened in surprise and drew back as far as he could without removing his arms from around Will. “Is that so?”

“I read them before I sleep.” His cheeks burned at how foolish it sounded when spoken out loud. “Sometimes I fancy that you’re there in bed beside me, reading them aloud. Just a silly thing, I know,” he said, sure that Horatio would laugh at him. Instead he saw quiet delight on Horatio’s face — delight and diffidence both. 

Diffidence won out in the end; Horatio withdrew his arms from around Will, his hands fidgeting in his lap. “The postscripts in your letters…” he began. “Do you mean the things you write to me?” 

The postscripts in question were admissions of their most private desires, spelled out in a code Horatio and Will had spent weeks devising before Horatio had left for war. Together they had written a slim codebook that Horatio had memorised and Will kept hidden beneath in a compartment built under a removable floorboard beneath his bed. He had built the thing to store his sketchbook of Horatio, the one filled with sketches that made it unsuited to keep where Mrs Livingstone — who tidied for him every other Friday — might discover it.

“Yes,” said Will. “Do you?” 

Horatio bowed his head, and Will’s stomach tightened; there had not been a postscript attached to Horatio’s letters since before the battle, now two weeks gone. But when Horatio met Will’s level gaze his eyes were bright with something that might have almost been desire. “Yes,” Horatio admitted, face flushing. “Every word of it.”

Will let out a sharp breath, profound relief washing over him. “Good,” he said, grinning like a fool. “I feared you were done with me.” 

“No,” said Horatio, a stern note in his voice. “No. God, I—” He laughed shyly. “The thought of you sustains me more than words can say.” 

Such open honesty gave Will courage, and he took Horatio’s hand in his. “Come back with me to the house,” he said, with an indication of his head. “I can’t take away the things you’ve seen, but I… I can try to offer you some better memories.”

There was an almost wistful look on Horatio’s face. “Alright,” he said, after a moment’s pause, and pressed Will’s hand. “Alright.” 

“However you like,” said Will. “You can think about it on the walk home.” He rose to his feet, a difficult manoeuvre with his mangled foot, and offered a hand to Horatio. “Come on,” he said gently, and Horatio grasped his hand. 

It was still cool as they walked back; the early morning sun had been replaced by shifting clouds. Will walked slowly, his leg stiff from sitting in such an awkward position for so long, leaning on his walking stick more heavily than he cared to. 

“Is it bad?” asked Horatio, after Will called a halt. “Your leg?” 

“It’s been worse,” he said. “Tires easily, that’s all.” A doctor in New York had set his leg after it had broken in  _ Dominion _ ’s sinking, but it had never healed properly, not even after another doctor in a London hospital had re-broken it during the operation on his foot . He had neither the money nor courage to try a third time. 

“I’ll see to it that it’s fixed,” said Horatio, a troubled look in his eye. “When this is all through, I’ll take you to London and have you seen to properly.” Will grunted and began to walk again, Horatio at his side keeping pace. After a little while he felt Horatio’s hand steal into his empty one and he gripped it tight, grateful for the comfort.

They dropped hands as they approached the village; even though friends could clasp hands or even kiss in public without fear of it being remarked upon too greatly, neither Will nor Horatio could afford to risk suspicion. A few villagers recognised Horatio, having come to know him as Will’s friend, but most friendly greetings were reserved for Will, as the junior postmaster. 

“They pity me,” said Will to Horatio, unlocking the front door of the cottage and ushering Horatio in. “The ones that don’t assume I’m a conchie — twice now this year I’ve been given a white feather when I was on a day off in Hastings.” Both times it had been a bitter reminder of his inability to join the fight as he had so desperately wanted to; a bad leg and a heart murmur were enough to bar a man from serving, no matter how willing he might be, and to then be labelled by strangers as a conscientious objector, as a man who refused to fulfil his duty to his country — it had wounded Will more than he could adequately express.

Horatio’s face darkened with anger. “That isn’t right,” he said sharply, as Will shut the door and locked it. “You’re doing your part, just like the rest of us. You’re just as much of use here at home than on the Front or at sea, and I—” He caught Will’s eye, his expression pinched and weary. “I’m so horribly glad for it. It’s selfish, I know it is, and I know how it hurts you to be here while I’m away but—” He smiled weakly and laughed, glancing down to the road. “I’m so horribly glad for it.” His voice broke a little on his words, and Will’s heart went out to him. He set his hat on the hall table next to Horatio’s cap and took Horatio into his arms, relieved by the way Horatio stiffly embraced him back.

“Let me take care of you,” whispered Will into Horatio’s neck. “Please.”

Horatio pulled back from the embrace and reached up to cradle Will’s face between his hands, examining it carefully, his slender fingers tracing the lines and angles of Will’s face. Will closed his eyes and gave over to Horatio’s touch, content to submit to this delicate inquiry. 

“William,” said Horatio, in a hushed and reverent tone.

Will opened his eyes and saw Horatio looking at him intently. “I think of you every day we are apart,” he said, reaching up to caress Horatio’s cheek. “Every time you leave you take some part of me with you, something I only realise the absence of when we’re separated. And it hurts, it does, but—” He pressed himself against Horatio, yearning for the warmth of Horatio’s body against his own, his eyes still fixed on Horatio’s. “It’s a good hurt, y’see? Means it’s real.”

Horatio’s hands grasped the back of Will’s jacket. “I know,” he said. “When we’re apart, I…” He trailed off, uncomfortable as always with confessions of any kind.

“You don’t have to say it,” said Will. “It’s enough to have you here.”

Horatio nodded, a bloom of colour in his pale cheeks, and in his dark eyes was the inexpressible longing that Will himself so often felt. “William,” he said again, and Will turned his face and met him in a delicate kiss.

It felt like the first time they had ever kissed, there on the stern of  _ Dominion — _ in another lifetime, it seemed now — all nerves and breathless hunger. It still made Will’s hands shake to think of his boldness that night; the brief liaisons he had shared with other men were one thing, but to pursue a ship’s officer had been something else entirely. Even now, he was painfully conscious of how badly it could have gone for him, but it hadn’t; Horatio had met him halfway. It had been astonishing — even frightening — to realise that Horatio saw him as an equal instead of a lesser; the men Will had dallied with before were almost always of higher social class than he, and had treated him accordingly. But not Horatio, who -- though he could be domineering and snide when his demons got the better of him -- treated Will as though he was important and valuable: for that, and so many other things, Will loved him, so much he burned with it. He kissed Horatio hungrily, the long, lonely weeks and months melting away with every touch, tilting Horatio’s head so he could kiss along the sharp line of Horatio’s jaw and down the side of his neck to where his efforts were impeded by a starched collar. 

“Tell me—” began Horatio, a little breathless, as Will kissed the bare skin above his collar. “Tell me what I wrote in my last letter.” 

Will drew back, his cheeks flushing at the memory. “You asked me to have you,” he said. “To use every exertion, I think your words were.”

Horatio smiled at him then, the first proper smile Will had seen on Horatio’s face since his return. “No need for that shyness, now,” he said, mocking in his severity. “You’ve had me before. Tell me, what will you do now that I’m here.” Beneath his stern tone there was an undercurrent of desperate need, an unspoken cry for succour, one that Will could not leave unanswered. He clasped Horatio’s neck, forcing Horatio to look at him. 

“I’ve thought of a great many things,” he admitted, his voice as low and deadly as he could make it.

“Tell me,” said Horatio, his breathing coming quickly now, and Will tried desperately to think of all the things Horatio had asked of him before, all his own fevered imaginings, dreamed up in the dark of the night when he lay alone in bed, when his longing for Horatio was so great it threatened to overwhelm him. 

“I could fuck you on your belly. Take you from behind like a dog.” His hand encircled Horatio’s throat, his thumb brushing against Horatio’s racing pulse. He leaned in closer and put his lips to Horatio’s ear. “Imagine that,” he whispered, “A proper naval commander being buggered from behind like a whore. I could even call you  _ sir _ while I do it.” Horatio shuddered beautifully in his arms and Will’s blood ran hot at the thought of all the things Horatio wished for him to do. “A bit of rough, is that what you want to pretend this is? Shall I take you to the kitchen and put you over the table? Or shall I have you in the sitting room, right there on the settee?” He fingered Horatio’s collar. “I won’t be gentle with you. I’ll ride you hard whichever way you want it — I won’t lay a finger on you until you beg.”

“Will,” gasped Horatio, his prick half-stiff in his trousers. “Will, enough.” But still he held Will close to him, his fingers digging into Will’s shoulders hard enough to bruise. Will knew better than to obey him: he rubbed the front of Horatio’s trousers, seeking out the curve of Horatio’s cock with his hand as he put his lips to Horatio’s ear. 

“Shall I put you on your belly on the settee?” he asked, and Horatio gave a ragged groan as Will’s hand unbuttoned his fly and slipped into his trousers. “You’ll have to keep quiet if I do — not a sound from your lips, d’you understand me, sir?” 

Horatio drew a ragged breath as Will freed his prick from the confines of his clothing and stroked it gently. It was a game they had played before: the rough man and the virtuous officer. There was no strength behind Will’s actions or his words — a single word from Horatio’s lips would see the whole farce ended with no hard feelings. Will was Horatio’s to command, body and soul, but he found pleasure in the inversion of their usual roles; it was gratifying to be able to lift the burden of command from Horatio’s shoulders, if only for an hour. He pressed his mouth to Horatio’s, his kiss possessive and greedy, and felt Horatio’s body yield at last. 

“Yes,” whispered Horatio into Will’s mouth. “Yes.”

Will pulled away. “When I return to the sitting room I want you naked, sir,” he said. “I want every last scrap of that uniform off.” He ran a hand over the gold buttons at the front of Horatio’s reefer jacket, admiring the way it fit him, even if it hung a trifle more loosely than it should. “Do I make myself clear?” 

Horatio nodded, his face flushed and his curls in disarray, and Will was unable to repress a chuckle at the sight of him so dishevelled. Horatio glanced over Will’s shoulder at the mirror on the opposite wall and gave a sheepish grin, quickly smoothing his hair back from his forehead in a futile attempt to tame it. Will reached for him and drew him into another kiss, Horatio’s hand fluttering uselessly in surprise as Will bore him backwards and pressed him against the wall. Then they were kissing again, Horatio’s hands in Will’s hair, his mouth eager and pliant against Will’s own. 

“There,” said Will, pulling back and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You looked like a man in need of a kiss.” Horatio smiled at that, a lopsided smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Now go on,” said Will, touching Horatio’s shoulder. “Go and get ready for me.” 

When he returned from his bedroom with the jar in his pocket he found the sitting room door ajar and the curtains drawn tight across the window. Horatio sat on the settee, pulled to the middle of the room, his uniform carefully laid over one of the chairs in front of the fire. He was thinner than Will remembered, his ribs more prominent, and Will once again wondered if anyone cared for him, if anyone worried after him as Will did.

Horatio rose from the settee and Will smiled at the sight of him; long and lanky though Horatio was, he was still handsome, and the knowledge that he was Will’s to touch and hold as he pleased was a bright spark in Will’s heart. Horatio reached for him, and without so much as a word, caught Will off guard with a firm kiss. Will’s entire body responded at once, and he clasped Horatio to him by buttock and shoulder, his whole body pliant and eager beneath Horatio’s touch. But Horatio pulled back, a fire in his eyes.

“Command me,” said Horatio, gripping Will’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Put that mouth of yours to work.”

Will closed his eyes for a moment and then Horatio’s mouth was on his again, his kiss shameless and achingly sweet. Only the thought of Horatio’s need stopped Will from giving himself over to Horatio, and so he pulled back, determined that Horatio should not be left unsatisfied. 

“Come here, sir,” he said, releasing Horatio and seating himself on the edge of the couch. “I want you to stand before me.”

Horatio obeyed, allowing Will to coax him to stand at ease, legs apart, just inches away from where Will sat. 

“Will—” Horatio began, but Will gave him a look that stopped all protest. He placed one hand securely on Horatio’s sharp hip, the other wrapping around Horatio’s half-hard cock, and gently stroked it.

“Quiet, sir,” he ordered, and pressed his lips to the tip of Horatio’s prick. Horatio shuddered, one hand reaching out to grasp Will’s shoulder to steady himself, the tension in his body ebbing as Will slowly took Horatio’s prick into his mouth. The hand on Will’s shoulder tightened and Horatio made a soft noise as Will began to move his head: Will smiled, pleased that he was still able to coax such sounds from a man as restrained as Horatio. Perhaps Horatio was imagining other things; perhaps he was remembering all the times Will had offered him more than his mouth — his hand, his thighs, his arse. There was nothing that Will would deny Horatio if he asked.

He worked at Horatio as long as he could comfortably; it was an act he enjoyed giving as much as receiving, and only when his muscles began to complain did he allow himself to slow. There was a certain kind of delight to be found in bringing such pleasure to Horatio, and the intimacy of it was gratifying; there was an undeniable sensuality in being able to touch Horatio in such a way, to relish the warmth of his scent and the softness of his skin. Will liked too how shy Horatio was afterwards, how pleased he was, as though Will had given him a precious gift, and often in those moments he allowed Will to lavish him with tenderness that he would not otherwise have accepted. 

“God,” whispered Horatio, as Will’s mouth withdrew from his cock. 

Will glanced up at him and smiled, the sight of Horatio standing there with his cheeks flushed and his eyes half closed satisfying. “More?” he asked, a little breathless, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Yes,” said Horatio. “Please.”

Will chuckled, loosening his collar and tie. He reached into his jacket pocket and unscrewed the jar of soft paraffin he had brought from the bedroom, smearing it thickly on his fingers before setting it aside beneath the settee. “Do you think about me when I’m gone?” he asked, looking up at Horatio as his hand returned to where it had been before on Horatio’s hip. “Do you touch yourself at night and imagine it’s me doing it?’

Horatio nodded, one hand in Will’s hair. “I do,” he said. 

Will coloured a little at that, and could scarcely hide his smile as he took Horatio into his mouth again. It pleased him beyond words to think of Horatio touching himself and thinking of Will, even as he knew the occasions were likely few and far between; officers, either merchant or navy, tended to live a life of accidental celibacy, with sleep more highly valued than any short-lived pleasure derived from self-gratification. He tried to imagine Horatio in his narrow berth, his eyes screwed shut, every muscle in his body tight as he worked to bring himself off to the memory of Will: it would be necessary to give him more memories — good ones that he might enjoy at leisure when they were once more apart. With this resolved in his mind, Will reached with his free hand to toy with Horatio, stroking his balls for a moment before slipping behind to rub a knuckle against the hard band of muscle between his thighs, and then to the crease between his buttocks. The hand in Will’s hair tensed suddenly as Will worked a slick finger into the tight heat of Horatio’s body, the muscles seizing at the sudden intrusion. After a long moment Will felt Horatio relax, his hand loosening its grip on Will’s hair, and he drew a ragged breath as Will worked a second finger into him. 

It was difficult, but not impossible, to work Horatio like this, and rewarding when his fingers moved in such a way that drew a low moan from Horatio’s lips. 

“Will,” Horatio warned, clutching tightly at Will. “Will—”

Will drew off him, aware too late that Horatio was trembling badly, barely able to stand. “On your belly for me, now,” he said, wiping his hands on his handkerchief. “Easy now—” he warned, as Horatio all but collapsed onto the settee, his whole body shaking with effort. He stretched himself out on the settee with a groan, his face buried in his forearm, his legs in Will’s lap, one hand idly tugging at his prick. 

“Hurry,” he demanded, as Will began to undress. There were always too many damned layers, thought Will, slipping off his shoes and socks and resolutely ignoring the sight of his mangled foot. Jacket, tie, waistcoat, trousers, shirt, vest, drawers — all came off and were left into a pile beside the settee. He cast an appraising eye over Horatio lying there and saw at once that it would be difficult to work at this angle. 

“Here,” he said, grabbing a cushion and easing it beneath Horatio’s hips. No doubt it would be spoiled — Will knew that he would inevitably end up having to scrub the cheap cotton clean, but it hardly seemed to matter now. The blood was running hot within him now; putting his mouth on Horatio had roused him as it always did, and he yearned to bury himself in Horatio and lose himself to pleasure.

“Come on, man,” growled Horatio, lifting his head to glower at Will. “Get on with it.”

Will chuckled as he reached beneath the settee and dipped his fingers in the jar again, liberally applying its contents to himself. “Always so impatient,” he said, settling himself between Horatio’s thighs. “You waited all those months at sea — you can wait another moment.” 

“I’m done with waiting,” mumbled Horatio into the settee cushions as Will ran a hand down the length of his spine. “I’m done with only imagining—” He broke off with a grunt.

“What is it you imagine?” asked Will, positioning himself above Horatio, the tip of his cock slipping easily between Horatio’s buttocks. 

“You,” gasped Horatio, as Will’s cock pressed against his arsehole, his body rising to take it. “I imagine you taking me — forcing me to give over to you. I don’t have to — to think, I only have to—”

“Go on,” whispered Will.

“I can’t,” said Horatio, near to weeping with frustration.

“I think you can, sir,” said Will, easing into Horatio just enough to feel the tight muscle give way but still withholding himself just enough to drive Horatio to distraction.

“Surrender,” grunted Horatio. “You make me surrender.” He groaned as Will pressed into him, his hands grasping at the settee cushions as Will began to slowly fuck him. “Oh damn — damn—” he stammered, all sense driven out of him by Will’s prick, and Will laughed. 

“Easy, sir,” said Will, kissing Horatio’s shoulder. 

“Damn you,” swore Horatio, but it was half-hearted. “Mind yourself or I’ll do — the same to you. Oh Christ, William,” he muttered, as Will thrust sharply into him. If he said anything more Will did not hear; he was quickly overwhelmed with the sensation of Horatio beneath him — the tightness of his arse, the warmth of his body, the way he pushed back against Will, seeking more, seeking everything that Will might give him. And Will, unable to refuse the man he loved so dearly, gave all that he could — his body, his love, everything he possessed. His chest was soon slick with sweat where it pressed against Horatio’s back, but it hardly seemed to matter; nothing mattered now, except for Horatio. He wanted the freedom of surrender: this was what Will would give him. He quickened his pace, drawing forth a muffled grunt from Horatio, who arched beneath Will as one hand reached beneath his belly to take himself in hand. 

“Not yet,” said Will, his hand closing around Horatio’s wrist. “Not until you surrender.” Horatio tried in vain to wriggle free, but Will’s strength made it impossible. He swore and spat, as fierce as any wildcat, and tried to wrench his wrist from Will’s grasp but Will held tight. “I want—” he said, a little breathless, “I want you to beg.” He slowed his pace, each thrust tortuously languid, until Horatio was writhing beneath him, sweating, cursing out Will in every way he knew how, but never begging. 

“I could leave you like this,” warned Will into Horatio’s ear, knowing full well he could do no such thing.

“You wouldn’t dare,” snarled Horatio. 

“Then tell me,” said Will. “Tell me how it is when we’re apart. D’you long for me? D’you remember all our nights together — our days too? Tell me, sir,” he said, drawing forth a heartfelt groan from Horatio as he moved.

“Please,” begged Horatio. “Will, please.”

Another man in Will’s place might have pressed Horatio further, might have demanded to see all that there was of Horatio’s peculiar soul before satisfying him at last. But Will could not do such a thing; he knew that to take advantage of Horatio’s defencelessness would be cruel beyond measure to a man who was so terrified of his own vulnerability. That Horatio should feel safe with Will — that he should trust Will — that was what mattered. 

“Yes,” said Will, kissing Horatio’s shoulder. “Yes.” He reached beneath Horatio’s belly, his hand wrapping around Horatio’s stiff prick, and stroked it. It was difficult to try to coordinate the movements of his hand with his hips but Horatio shifted, using what little purchase his knees could gather on the settee to match Will’s rhythm. It was easier this way, and Will felt himself begin to drift; nothing, it seemed, mattered but this. Beyond the confines of this little room there was no war, no loneliness, no misery. No nights spent reading and rereading letters, trying to envision where the writer was, what he was doing, what he was thinking — whether he missed the man he sent his letters to, missed him like he might have missed his own heart had it been taken from him. There was no thought of that now, when they were together and all boundaries had blurred until that horrible division, that dreadful separation, had become but a bitter memory.

“I love you,” he mumbled, only semi-coherent. “More than I know how.” He pressed his face against Horatio’s back. “There wasn’t anyone before — never thought I’d know love. Told myself — told myself I could go without it. But then I met you.”

“Will,” groaned Horatio, “Will, I—”

“Tell me,” urged Will, aware from the tension in Horatio’s body that he was close. “Tell me how it is when we’re apart. Please.”

Horatio took a great shuddering gasp. “I ache for you,” he groaned into the cushions, and then he was there, spilling into Will’s hand with a muffled cry, the whole of his body in spasm as Will drove him through it. 

For a moment they both lay there, too stunned to move. The world had taken on an odd vitality in their absence; the slim lines of afternoon light escaping beneath the drawn curtains shifted oddly on the floor with the summer’s breeze, the faded green damask of the couch more richly coloured than before, the scent of old horsehair and sweat and spend almost potent. Horatio made a noise of discomfort, drawing Will back to himself: he shifted, carefully withdrawing from Horatio’s body before their entanglement became too intolerable, and set about wiping the spend from his hand with his handkerchief. Horatio sat up and shoved the damp cushion to the floor. His cheeks were red and his hair in glorious disarray: he smiled at Will and took the proffered handkerchief, quickly cleaning his belly before dropping it to the floor. The smile faded as he took in Will’s half-hard prick. 

“Christ,” he muttered. “I thought you’d finished.” 

“I…” Will spread his hands hopelessly. “You’ve been generous enough with me. I’ll finish like this,” he said, his hand wrapping around his cock. 

“No,” said Horatio, then, a little kinder, he added: “You’ll do no such thing. Let me touch you. Let me be good to you.” Will’s eyes fluttered shut and he rested his forehead against Horatio’s shoulder as a hand closed around his prick. Then Horatio’s mouth was on his and they were kissing, and Will’s heart broke with all the months of waiting. He clung to Horatio’s shoulders like a man drowning, his entire body trembling as his whole body seized and he spent at last with a soft cry into Horatio’s hand. 

The kiss lingered for a long moment until Will had stopped shaking. He withdrew with a contented sigh and rested his head on the back of the settee, eyes still shut. 

“Here,” said Horatio, after he had wiped himself and Will clean. “Lie down with me.” He lay back on the settee and drew Will to lie at his side with his head on Horatio’s shoulder. Will put up no resistance; he had no strength left. He felt as though he were on the verge of tears: whether from sorrow or from elation, he did not know. Instead he petted Horatio’s chest and waited for the sensation to pass.

“D’you know when I first loved you?” he murmured. The temperature had dropped significantly since the morning: outside Will could hear the first splashes of rain against the windows, and then a roar as the heavens opened. He shivered, suddenly cold. 

Horatio grunted, shifting away for a moment before returning with his jacket, left on the chair within reach. “I know when I first loved you,” he said, spreading it over them both like a blanket and tucking it around Will. 

Will lifted his head, unable to hide his surprise. “When?” he asked.

“When I returned to Hythe after  _ Dominion _ ’s final inquiry. After Leighton told me I’d never be given command of a ship.” His tone was pensive and sad. “I hadn’t returned since my father had passed. The mayor and the council had heard I was coming home and arranged a reception in my honour — they even gave me that gold watch in recognition of my supposed heroism. Told me that they were proud of me, that I was a hero — it all felt so hollow. All my life I’d wanted to be told I was someone, that I mattered, and here were all these people welcoming me home, telling me how marvellous I was, and I had never felt more worthless or alone.” He pressed his cheek against Will’s head, his arms wrapping tight around Will. “I felt like a charlatan, taking these good people in on a confidence trick, making them think that I mattered, that I was special. I — I fear I was in a very bad place — might have chucked it all in the next day, to tell you the truth, my promise to you be damned.”

Horatio’s mental balance had suffered greatly after the loss of  _ Dominion _ ; he had blamed himself fiercely for those lost in the tragedy and for Will’s injury. He had seen Will through his operation in London, even sitting beside Will’s bed in hospital while he was still unconscious from the anaesthetic. But once he had seen Will to the comfort of his mother’s cottage in Chichester something had changed. The brightness had left him, and Will — who was already privy to Horatio’s dark moods — began to worry that he might cause himself injury, either deliberately or by serendipitous accident. Before they parted ways Will had extracted a promise from Horatio to spend a week on his return from Kent; he had hoped it might be enough to prevent something dreadful from taking place.

“I’m sorry,” Will said, the words limping and inadequate.

Horatio shook his head. “You telephoned me, out of nowhere. When I returned to my hotel that evening you were waiting for me. You’d taken the trouble of going into town to the post office even as you were still recovering from surgery and could barely walk — all to telephone me and ask if I was alright. You knew I wasn’t, even though I said I was — you knew me better than that, I suppose. Hearing your voice was like a lifeline to me; when you rang off I sat there in the telephone booth for quite some time just thinking of you until someone came along and booted me out. I remember thinking to myself that night that it didn’t matter if I was a hero or not: what mattered was that I could be someone to you, if I tried. That would be enough.” He shifted Will closer and took a deep breath. “You’re my home, William Bush, or the nearest thing I’ve got to one anyways. Not this house — you. Wouldn’t matter if you were here or under a railway bridge, you’d be home to me all the same.”

Will could only stare at him, utterly lost for words. “Will?” asked Horatio, nervously. “Have I said too much?”

“No,” said Will, with a shaky laugh.

“I know I’m no good with words,” said Horatio, touching Will’s cheek. “I know I’m not an easy man to love. And I know what I give in return is middling at best.” He frowned, his expression troubled, and Will clung to him a little tighter in the hopes it might provide some reassurance. “You deserve better than the likes of me,” Horatio said.

“I deserve  _ you _ ,” said Will, determined that Horatio should not allow his treacherous worries to get the better of him. “You’re my one chance in a million, don’t you remember? The find of a lifetime.” He meant every word; he knew well that the love he had found was a thing more precious than rubies. “D’you know when I first loved you?” 

“When?” asked Horatio, so soft that Will nearly missed it. 

He hitched himself tighter around Horatio, the comfort of Horatio’s body a necessary precaution against the raw edges of his memory. “I did not recognise it as love at the time, but looking back… it was love, sure as anything.” He closed his eyes and drew an unsteady breath, the memory of that night as clear to him now as it had been then. “After  _ Dominion _ sank there was nothing any of us could do but try to survive until the boats came back for us. I told myself it wouldn’t be long, that they wouldn’t abandon us to our deaths in this way. But with every minute that passed it soon became clear that we would die, all of us, there in the icy sea: no one was coming back. You cannot imagine the torture of it — seeing the occasional flash of light from your electric torches, hearing your voices carrying across the water—”

“I can,” interrupted Horatio. “I had to listen.”

A heavy silence followed as they both remembered what they tried so hard to forget. “I know,” said Will, at last, opening his eyes. Even now he could see etched on Horatio’s face the horror of that night. “There are times I wonder if you didn’t get the worse deal, truth be told.” Horatio’s mouth was pressed into a tight line in that way it always was when he was struggling with great emotion, and Will felt a pang of guilt. “I’m sorry, Horatio, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s quite alright,” said Horatio, his tone strained. “You realised you loved me when you thought you were dying, was that it?” 

“Not quite. I remember—” He pressed himself tighter against Horatio, desperate for the warmth of a body against his. “I remember lying there on that hull, certain I would die, and then I thought of you. And I knew as long as you lived that I would survive — only you would be reckless enough to dare to come back and search for survivors. When I heard your voice calling out — no angel of mercy could ever have sounded as sweet.”

“I didn’t come back just for you,” Horatio said, a trifle sharply. “It was my duty.”

“I know,” said Will. “I realised that once you carried on with your search, despite having found me. But— you try, Horatio. You always try, even when you doubt yourself you still try and—” He struggled to express in words the extent of his admiration and love for this man, this brilliant, kind, contradictory man who called himself Will’s friend. “You brought me tea,” he said at last.

“Tea?” 

“After  _ Perseus _ took us onboard. You must have been exhausted — I can’t imagine how you had the strength to stand — but once we were under weigh you brought me tea, and you sat there while I drank it and after a while you fell asleep — just dozing, really — and I realised then that I’d never stood a chance, not before, certainly not once you fished me out of the drink and kept me company all those long hours. I loved you. It was as simple as that.” 

Horatio’s mouth was on Will’s before he even had a chance to think, the kiss aching sweet, and Will responded in kind, clasping Horatio to him. There were a thousand things he wished to say to Horatio — a thousand different affirmations of his love — but he knew of only one way to say it. “I love you,” he whispered against Horatio’s mouth. “More dearly than I love my own soul.” And then Horatio was kissing him again, and Will gave over to it; naked and defenceless though he was, he was not afraid, as Horatio was, of his own vulnerability. To him it was a gift, and one he gave gladly; he could think of no one more worthy than Horatio. 

“You’re soft,” said Horatio, when they broke apart at last. But the troubled look on his face had disappeared at last: instead he gave Will a crooked half-smile, his fingers running through Will’s hair. 

Will grinned, sheepish. “It’s all your doing,” he teased, and Horatio laughed, the first true laugh Will had heard in months. 

“I didn’t mean  _ that _ ,” Horatio said quickly. “Oh — damn you.” He flushed and Will kissed him again, unable to resist. They lay there, exchanging kisses for some time, until Horatio’s restlessness got the better of him at last and he extracted himself from Will’s embrace and stood up. 

“I need a bath,” said Will, rolling off the settee with a groan. “And this room needs to be tidied.” 

“I’ll draw one,” said Horatio, gathering his clothes. “Do what you need to do down here, and come share my bath.” 

“We don’t fit,” pointed out Will, but Horatio paid him no heed. “Last time we shared a bath half the water ended up on the floor.” It went without mentioning that he had been the one who had mopped it up. 

“Come upstairs when you’re finished,” said Horatio. It was not a request, and there was no use arguing; Horatio had left before Will could open his mouth. He quickly dressed in shirt and trousers and set about putting the sitting room to rights. 

He found Horatio half an hour later splayed out in the bath, idly smoking, one skinny leg dangling out of the tub. An ashtray had been balanced beside the tap. “Window’s open,” said Horatio quickly, aware of Will’s dislike for lingering cigarette smoke. 

“I don’t dare ask how many of those you get through when you’re at sea,” said Will, sitting down on the edge of the bath. 

“Less than you think. I am a devotee of enough vices — I try not to acquire any more.” He passed the cigarette up to Will, who inhaled and winced; Horatio had a preference for strong tobacco that Will did not share. “You should bathe,” Horatio said, folding up his legs and shifting forward so that there was space for Will at his back. The bathwater sloshed dangerously. “Come on.” 

Will passed the cigarette back to Horatio and undressed, stepping into the bath with all the enthusiasm of a martyr stepping into a pot of boiling water. Mercifully, Horatio had not filled it more than a third full: the water rose as Will sat down in it but did not spill over the lip of the bath. They washed in silence, Horatio smoking, Will gathering his courage for the question that lingered at the edge of his mind.

“How long are you home?” Will asked, when Horatio had settled with his back to Will’s chest. 

“Ten days. Then I’m to report to Rosyth and await further orders.” 

“I see,” said Will. He had not been so foolish as to hope for two weeks but the thought of just ten days together before parting stung; it could be as long as fifteen months before he saw Horatio again. He put his arm around Horatio and held on to him tight: perhaps Horatio felt the same, for he did not protest. 

They lay there for quite some time in perfect silence, listening as the rain died away and the bath water slowly cooled. Only when Will began to shiver did Horatio pull the plug and get out of the bath: wordlessly, he turned and helped Will to his feet, his hand steady and sure, and Will was filled with such adoration that he clasped Horatio to him and kissed him. 

Horatio was smiling when he pulled back. “You missed a spot shaving,” he said, touching a spot on Will’s jaw, and Will’s rubbed his face, self-conscious, as Horatio dried himself.

“Give over,” he grumbled good-naturedly, stealing the towel from Horatio, and Horatio grinned at him. 

The distance that had existed between them that morning was gone now: once more they could find peace in each other’s company. As Will dressed in his bedroom he saw Horatio eyeing up the uniform laid across the bed with some reluctance. 

“You don’t have to wear it,” he said. “Not when you’re home.”

“And wear civvies in public?” muttered Horatio, plucking at a loose thread on the bottom of his reefer jacket. “I won’t have people thinking I’m not doing my part to aid the war effort.” He glanced up at Will, suddenly guilty. “Oh, Will, I’m sorry—”

“It’s nothing,” said Will. “Here.” He pulled a set of clean clothes out of his wardrobe and handed them to Horatio. “I brought these over from your room.”

The expression on Horatio’s face was one of conflicting gratitude and wariness as he took the clothes and dressed silently. He did not put the jacket on, choosing instead the jumper that Will’s sister had knitted him for Christmas. It suited him, and Will did not object.

“Come on,” said Will, taking Horatio’s hand. “I think the rain’s stopped now. Let me show you what I’ve done in the garden.”

The afternoon passed swiftly after that, the time slipping away from them more quickly than either of them would have liked. Will cooked a simple dinner for them both: he was no great cook, but unlike Horatio, he could be trusted to not burn supper and they both knew it. Horatio washed the dishes after, citing Will’s injury and ignoring him when he protested that his leg was fine. They retired to bed when the sun had not yet set, weary from the day, and Horatio curled up beside Will as Will read aloud from one of his adventure magazines.

“I don’t believe these writers have ever set foot on a ship,” grumbled Horatio when Will finished. “Such a manoeuvre is impossible in a square-rigged vessel like the one described. You can’t sail nearer to the wind than sixty degrees.”

“You ought to write, then,” said Will, setting the magazine aside and switching out the light. It was near to ten o’clock but still the daylight had not gone; it seeped through the dark curtains, the watery blue light picking out the white squares of the chequered counterpane. He settled himself in bed, facing Horatio. “You’d be good at it, you know.”

“What would I write?” asked Horatio, a note of disdain in his voice. “The overstrung captain and his doggedly loyal lieutenant?”

Will laughed. “If you like,” he said.

“I’d rather write about you,” said Horatio. “A proper hero.”

Will’s face flushed at the unexpected compliment, and he hid his face in the pillow. “It’s all your doing,” he said. 

“No. It’s yours. Knowing you’re here, holding the line — you give me courage to do my part in this war.” He touched Will’s cheek. “You make me brave.”

“Nonsense,” said Will, unwilling to believe it. “Don’t say such things.” It always made him uncomfortable when Horatio spoke so frankly; as much as he yearned for such things, he was acutely aware of the discomfort such statements caused Horatio, which in turn troubled him. And yet this time there did not seem to be the usual discomfiture that followed; instead, there was a resigned sigh, and then Horatio was kissing him, his hand stroking Will’s shoulder and neck. It was everything Will had longed for all these months and more: he put an arm around Horatio and kissed him back. 

“Thank you,” said Horatio with quiet sincerity when they drew apart. 

“It’s nothing,” said Will, touching Horatio’s hair. “There’s nothing I won’t give you if you ask it of me, you know.”

“I know,” said Horatio. He gave an embarrassed smile. “You were a right bastard this afternoon.”

“You asked it of me,” said Will. “You could have had me another way instead.”

Horatio shook his head. “I like it that way. Means I don’t have to think, I can simply — well.” He laughed. “You’re good at being a right bastard.”

Will kissed him, nothing more than a brief press of the lips, but Horatio kissed him back and so they lay there in the growing darkness, stealing kisses from each other until weariness claimed them at last and they slept, curled around each other like children.

It was still dark when Will awoke to Horatio caught in the grip of a nightmare, his whole body trembling as a low, agonising groan escaped his clenched teeth. There was nothing to be done but wait; either Horatio would wake himself from his dreams of war or he would fall into more restful sleep, as Will knew from experience. It made his heart sore, to know that he could not ease Horatio’s suffering, so he lay there in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, and waited for peace.

At last the shaking stopped and Horatio slumped bonelessly against the pillow, his breathing coming in erratic gasps. If he was awake, Will could not tell; he could very well be hovering between sleep and wakefulness, and Will did not want to be the one to upset that balance. But a moment later he heard the sound of muffled weeping, and he reached for Horatio in the darkness and drew him close. Horatio went willingly, curling himself around Will, his head on Will’s chest. 

“Horatio,” Will said softly, pressing his cheek to Horatio’s hair. “You’re here, you’re home.” Horatio gave a strangled half sob and clutched at Will tighter. “Oh, my sweetheart,” he said thoughtlessly, and cursed himself for the slip. Horatio did not care for nicknames or endearments — he barely tolerated Will using his Christian name — and Will tried to avoid using such terms outwardly, no matter how he thought of Horatio privately.

They lay like that for some time until Horatio’s breathing came easy and steady, and then, to Will’s great surprise, he gave a sad chuckle. “I don’t hate it as much as you suppose,” he mumbled, his voice thick and unsteady. 

“Hmm?” 

“You calling me your  _ sweetheart _ . I—” He cleared his throat. “I suppose I should tell you. My brother officers — they think I have a girl back home. A few months back there was a luncheon and the topic of wives and sweethearts came up, as it does. I tried to keep out of it but it came ‘round to me eventually and I… I tried to explain, about the engagement years ago, and how I hadn’t found anyone quite like that again, but — I suppose I’m not a very good liar.” 

Horatio was only a slightly better liar than Will; he could conceal his emotions well enough but any attempt at bald-faced lying was countermanded by his awkward delivery. “You told them about me, didn’t you.” It wasn’t a question. 

“They asked,” said Horatio, a trifle stiffly. “I only answered enough to get them to stop asking me questions. Silly things. The colour of her eyes, her hair, what she looked like. How we met. If we were going to be married. Stupid questions, really. Nothing about what she was like, what her personality was. I suppose men like that think all women are the same — I suppose I did once too.”

“What did you say?”

Horatio shifted closer. “Blue eyes, I said. Dark hair that never lies flat. A hardy face, handsome in the right light. I told them we met when I was still a merchant officer — I didn’t offer specifics.”

Will touched Horatio’s hair. “What about marriage?” he asked, amused by the notion of Horatio having to answer that particular question.

Horatio was silent for a long while. “I said that it wasn’t possible, not for us.” There was a sorrow in his voice that Will had never heard before, and it gave him pause. “They all think I’m carrying on with a married woman, of course, which explains away much of my reluctance. I do fear that they would mistake your sister for my sweetheart if ever one of them should come to this village.” He cleared his throat, suddenly awkward. “There you have it,” he said, rolling over onto his side. “Goodnight.”

Will had never possessed a sharp mind but even he knew that some nerve of Horatio’s had been touched with that question. It troubled him to think that Horatio was withholding the truth of what he desired, especially if Will could, in some way, fulfil that desire. There was a doubt nagging at the back of his mind, a doubt that had existed for years, and Will summoned whatever courage he could to ask it.

“Do you wish to be married?” he asked Horatio, his stomach tight with worry. “Do you wish to set me aside and find a wife?” 

Horatio rolled over to face Will. “Is that what you think I wish?” he asked. “To give you up?”

“I don’t know,” said Will.

There was a heavy silence. “I wish to be married,” Horatio said quietly. “But not to someone else.” He reached for Will’s hand in the dark and pressed it. “An impossible dream, I know.”

“No,” said Will, squeezing Horatio’s hand tight. “It matters to you.” He took a deep breath. “I would, you know. Marry you, if you asked it of me.”

“You said before you aren’t the marrying sort,” said Horatio, a trifle bitter. “It’s an idle fancy. Forget it.”

But Will would do no such thing. “What do you want, Horatio?” he asked. “I know we can’t be married proper-like, but surely — whatever you fancy, I will do my utmost.” He cast around for an idea. “A photograph,” he said at last. 

“A photograph?” asked Horatio, somewhat incredulous at the suggestion.

“We’ll dress in our best — my best suit, your number one uniform, sword and all. I can set up the camera in the living room. Think of it—” He searched for the right term. “Think of it as an engagement portrait.”

A pause followed. “I would like that,” said Horatio, his tone pensive and sad. “Something to remember what we were to each other should I—” He left the sentence unfinished but the meaning was clear enough: if he were to die at sea, the portrait would serve as testament to his memory, to the memory of what he was to Will. “Would you like something?” he asked Will. “Some token of my affection for you?” 

Will’s cheeks flushed. “A photograph,” he said. “Of us kissing.”

Horatio thought about it for a moment. “You’ll have to keep it in the usual place,” he warned. The usual place was a concealed compartment beneath a floorboard that Will had built to keep their more personal possessions. “I won’t stand for such a thing being in public display.”

“No, of course not,” said Will. He stroked Horatio’s hair, waiting for his thoughts to settle into uniform order before speaking again. “I want to have something made for you. Would you wear a ring?”

“A watch would be better,” said Horatio. “Would you wear one?” 

Will thought for a long moment. “Yes,” he said. “A signet ring, perhaps.”

Horatio nodded, thinking. “I have my father’s still. It’s nothing special, but… it’s yours, if you wish it.”

“We can take the boat out,” said Will, and then, half-teasing, half-serious: “At sea you are a captain — captains have the authority to conduct divine service, I do believe.”

“I don’t believe that particular ability extends to officiating one’s own ceremony,” muttered Horatio, but Will could tell he was pleased. “What if I should return in December, though? What then? Freeze our bollocks off in choppy seas?”

Will’s mind raced. “Before you leave then. We can go to Hastings tomorrow morning, and the next day it’s sunny…”

“Alright,” said Horatio. “Alright.” He released Will’s hand. “Thank you,” he said at last. 

“I know it’s not a proper ceremony — not the legal sort, at any rate — but I swear to you that I will live by whatever vows you wish to exchange with me until the end of my days.”

Horatio rolled over. “You’re a fool,” he pronounced, but there was no edge to his words. 

“Perhaps,” agreed Will, turning on his side to press up against Horatio, one arm across Horatio’s chest. “But I’m your fool.”

Horatio grunted. “Clearly,” he said. “Fool enough to love me.”

“No,” said Will. “Fortunate. Yours is the greatest love I’ll ever know.” He kissed Horatio’s shoulder and for once did not immediately hear a rebuttal.

“Do you know what I thought of when all my brother officers were describing their wives and sweethearts?” mumbled Horatio, already half-asleep. “I thought to myself that none of them could ever compare to my Will. You’re no great beauty, I’ll grant you that, but in loyalty and love you outshine them all.” He touched Will’s arm. “Goodnight, Will.”

“Goodnight,” said Will, scarcely able to speak for the happiness in his heart. He kissed Horatio’s shoulder, warmed beyond measure by Horatio’s words. In the morning Horatio would be embarrassed by his display of affection, but Will knew him better than to believe that Horatio did not mean the things he said in the small hours of the night. There would be no grand ceremony for them, no celebration but the one they made for each other, and yet somehow Will knew it was enough: no matter how small, no matter how secret, it was theirs and theirs alone, fashioned together with their own hands. They had always made the most of so little.

**Author's Note:**

> Hornblower's ship _Atropos_ is based on the real-life HMS _Spitfire_. He has advanced far too quickly for a man of his years, but he did so in canon and I'm fond of him being a commander.


End file.
